Kill Your Darlings

Peter Wentz was always told that he had a way with words. From the time he could speak, his teachers always praised him for the eloquencey of the words that flowed out of his mouth. Everyone always told him that, if he tried, he could become a poet. "One of the greats, like Robert Frost!" His eighth grade teacher exclaimed when she read his yearly composition.

While that was fine and dandy by Pete, it wasn't like some old dusty poet he wanted to be like. Robert Frost led a boring life; Pete wanted adventure. He wanted to travel the world and write as he pleased. He wanted a challenge.

However, this particular challenge was not the preferred one. The challenge? Fitting his mattress through the door of his apartment. Grumbling with disdain, Pete turned, pressing his shoulder against the hard, cushioned object and pushed once more, grunting with exertion. It didn't seem to be stuck on anything— it was most likely too heavy for minuscule Pete.

He was aware of the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his skull, and quickly turned around, hoping to notice someone looking at him. No one was there, of course, leaving Pete to ponder his mental stability as he continued to shove his mattress through his door.

All at once, it gave way, slipping easily into the apartment, sending Pete sprawling forward. Thankfully, the mattress softened his fall, and saved him from two broken wrists. He stood up, brushing non-existent dust off of his shirt, and closed the apartment door, wincing at the ostentatious squeak the ancient hinges gave off.

The rest of his meager belongings were already in the apartment: an old, green, nicotine-stained couch, smelling of booze and cigarettes, no matter how many times he washed the cushions; a few knick-knacks from the various places he had traveled— a copy of the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe from when he visited Poe's birthplace was a particular favorite; and boxes upon boxes of books. Even though he had left Chicago in a haste, he dared not forget his library. It was hell to transport to New Jersey, but the boxes helped the apartment seem more like home. Along with those were the other, more basic belongings— television, clothes, and toiletries.

Deciding that he was finished fiddling with the mattress for one day more, Pete sank down onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling, listening. It was always a good idea to hear what the building sounds like at night, so that it didn't frighten him later. The foundations creaked as the building settled, the sound of water rushing down pipes distantly audible from inside the walls.

Then, there was a curious sound that made Pete sit up and press his ear to the drywall to listen. It was a hard, sharp clink, like metal on metal. Like someone had dropped a coin behind one of the ancient radiators, but the sound came rapidly, making Pete come to the conclusion that it definitely was not coins. It was something else that he couldn't quite place.

Three floors above Pete Wentz's apartment stood Apartment 7B. Everyone knew who lived there, but they kept a good distance away.

Michael Way lived in 7B. Michael was an enigma if there ever was one— no one knew anything about him, only that he seemed to be at the center of the Belleville Disappearances.

The Belleville Disappearances were something straight out is Stephen King book. Once a month, on the 14, Michael would speak to one person. Then, on the 15, the person he spoke to would be gone. No sign of them, and no clue of what Michael had said. The police had pulled Michael into the station after three months of this, and he somehow got off scott free.

There was a finite amount of people that Michael talked to that didn't get affected by the Disappearances— his brother, and two other men. It was never obvious that one of them was Michael's brother— the two had the same eye shape and color, but that was the only thing they had alike. The second man had a mass of curly hair on the top of his head, while the third had short, black hair that was dyed blond, almost white, on the sides. Nobody knew these mens' names, or the significance of their existence to Michael.

The clinking brought Pete back from mentally gathering the information about the Disappearnces. He pressed his ear closer to the wall, and heard a small, muffled shout from the apartment floors above his. A conclusion came to him, and he slumped back down to the couch, dismissing the sounds as neighbors who had no idea just how loud they were.

That was not the case in the slightest. "Please d-don't," the young man whimpered, his brown eyes wide with fear as he looked upon the man across the room from him.

Mikey clicked his tongue, examining his prey. He had handcuffed the man— what was his name? Ryan? Who knows?— to one of the radiators, letting that be the extent of what he did to Ryan. For the past few minutes, he had been watching a certain gnome-man shove his mattress into his apartment. The animalistic side of Mikey itched to curl his fingers in the man's peroxide locks and leave the biggest, darkest lovebites on the man's neck as he could; the more rational side decided to finish the task at hand before trying to jump his new neighbor's bones. "Oh, Ryan," Mikey purred, crouching down to have his face level with Ryan's. "You don't understand. I need to do this."

"You're a monster," Ryan whispered, tears running down his cheeks.

"You really don't understand," Mikey mumbled. "I have to feed. Every month, my hormones speed up, making me desperate for fresh blood. You..." Mikey paused to smell Ryan. Fresh and clean, like new linens; untainted. "You're as fresh as they come, Mr. Ross. You're the prime canidate to help me through my bloodlust."

Before Ryan could say anything, Mikey pressed his lips against Ryan's, his hand reaching up to caress the young man's body. "It'll only hurt for a second," Mikey told Ryan, pulling away a minuscule amount. "I promise."

Ryan, once again, didn't get a chance to respond. Mikey's hand sealed itself to Ryan's mouth, which held back the scream of pain and terror as Mikey sank his extended fangs into the vein on Ryan's neck. The red traveled down Ryan's neck, and Mikey drank from the source. He pulled Ryan's head a bit away from him, to get a better angle, and bit down harder, making the crimson sweetness splatter the back of his throat.

Ryan, who was fighting the whole time, fell quiet and still when Mikey repositioned his head. Mikey pulled away with a large suctioning sound— the flow of blood has made his lips and mouth stick to Ryan's neck— and examined his prey once more, noting the paleness of his skin and the stillness of his heart.

Nevermore.

Notes

Just a little taste of what's to come...

xoøli